


The Madness of Men

by Westfelled



Category: A Song of Ice and Fire & Related Fandoms, A Song of Ice and Fire - George R. R. Martin, Game of Thrones (TV)
Genre: Alternate Universe - Canon Divergence, Angst, Branding, Drug Addiction, F/M, Gen, Heavy Angst, Hurt/Comfort, M/M, Nightmares, Non-Consensual Drug Use, Post-Traumatic Stress Disorder - PTSD, Rape/Non-con Elements, Torture, Whump
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2016-06-23
Updated: 2017-07-24
Packaged: 2018-07-16 20:50:00
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence, Rape/Non-Con
Chapters: 7
Words: 18,093
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/7284262
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Westfelled/pseuds/Westfelled
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Sansa is no fool, neither is she a stranger to such horrors. With a resolving breath, she takes his face in her hands and gazes into unfocused brown irises, ignoring the blood which slithers from his nose. "Jon, hear what I'm saying to you. I know, I know it hurts, but you are a survivor and you aren't finished yet."</p><p>Hope is a dangerous thing, but to be without it is deadly.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Homecoming

The somber skies have become an increasingly scarce sight beneath the crushing weight of his men. They scramble unknowingly over his body, muddy boots dancing on his ribs, his limbs, in his gut, on his skull. Each attempt at breath is met with a hard limb that presses the air right back out into the world. A primal panic fires through every nerve in his body as he fumbles for a foothold out of the hellish pit he's found himself in.

A fleeting thought of _I could just stay here. I could let it all end._ Jon slows for a moment, but only a moment, then furiously presses the notion from his mind. Such a thing would be simpler, cleaner, but a small part of Jon that was not left behind in his past life is far too proud for all of that.

With his last ounce of vigor, he curls his fingers around a ragged tunic and tugs with all his might. Again and again, he drags himself upward until he breaches the surface with a breath so great it sends colors to his vision. The cold stings his lungs, yet he jealously gulps the thick winter air which reeks of blood and sweat and earth and bowels but to Jon, it's the most beautiful thing in the world.

A thick fog clouds his senses and it takes a moment for him to register the solitary horn which howls boldly over the carnage. It is a triumphant sound which rings down into the valley and resonates there, causing nearly every man to pause with baited curiosity. Jon squints to distinguish a blurred mass of blue and white and gray which grows closer with each passing moment. A glint of red shines on the hillside, a fierce wave of falcon banners charging down the hill beside her. _Sansa. Thank the gods for Sansa._

Jon meets her eyes, exchanging a wordless gratefulness before her gaze shifts to something behind him and turns cold. He turns.

An effort to remain stoic is obvious, but even from a distance, Jon can see the nervous glint in Ramsay's eyes as his men begin to fall. Through the chaos, Jon has paid little mind to the man aside from a subconscious readiness for when their paths might collide, but Ramsay bears not a drop of blood nor a speck of dirt upon his skin. With not one ounce of mercy left within him, the sight strikes the rawest sort of wrath into Jon's bones.

There comes a moment when Ramsay must understand his defeat, though Jon doubts he accepts it, and kicks his horse into a swift canter for the fortress on the horizon. With a surge of rage-fueled vigor, Jon pursues.

Not far across the battlefield, Sansa swallows.

Vengeance has hardly ever been his primary motivator, he takes after his father in that way. But Ramsay is the living embodiment of every terrible thing that has befallen on his family since Roose Bolton slid a sword between Robb's ribs. Though his heart has burned to restore the Stark name in the North, he's seen the torment in Sansa's haunted eyes and blinded by wrath, any intention of a merciful death is lost.

With a menacing snap, enemy arrows sing through the air and only then does Jon register the shuddering of the ground beneath his feet. Suddenly, he finds himself cast in a mountainous shadow as Wun Wun surges ahead, taking the shower of bolts with a grunt. As they approach the gate, Jon slows and allows his comrade to do what he does best.

The giant charges forth with a mighty roar which might have made the fortress itself tremble and suddenly, he is cut short. Jon can do nothing more than watch, horrified and baffled as the giant crashes into the soft earth, an arrow protruding from his eye.

"You suggested one-on-one combat, didn't you?"

Upon the ramparts, Ramsay stands tall with a bow in his hands and a foxlike grin. Jon's eyes slowly rise, hardly an ounce of humanity left within him as he glares coldly at the bellowing Bolton. Ramsay sneers. "I think that's a wonderful idea."

Arrows are notched and Jon's legs move on their own accord as he bolts for the motionless mountain that had once been his friend. The bolts sing through the air and a despite his quickness, a searing pain blooms in Jon's thigh and he slams to the ground gracelessly, an agonized growl rumbling in his chest. Righting himself, he curses at the image of a long wooden shaft protruding from the back of his thigh. Behind him, pour from the gates with a clatter of steel and he tightens his grip on Longclaw. If he could only hold the Boltons off for a few minutes until his forces arrive...

The soldiers surround him quickly, an array of swords and spears outheld toward his chest. Jon winces as he makes his way to his feet, more slowly than he'd like to, and assumes a defensive stance as best he can. With hardly a warning, a second arrow bounces off his knuckles and sends Longclaw to the earth with a metallic thud. This time, the men are on him in an instant and though he lands a few successful kicks and punches, he's no match for their numbers. When finally a well-aimed pommel lands perfectly at his temple, the world goes black. Consciousness has only partially returned to him when he realizes he's being dragged through the courtyard, his boots carving twin trails in the dirt behind him. Weakly, his head rolls as the thunder of his forces carries over the walls, arriving to meet their commander just moments too late. 

"Take him below," he registers vaguely, "I'm sure he'll be grateful to see his father again."

They drag him through the grounds of his childhood home but nostalgia is far from Jon's mind, partially due to the mixture of blood, sweat and dirt which has seeped into his eyes. Soon he's swallowed by darkness as they descend down the swirling spiral of steps that he knows lead to the crypts.

Though the Boltons have not bothered themselves with keeping the torches lit, neither have they managed to disrespect any of the graves. Each statue stands cold and untouched. Jon wonders if their stoic gazes are directed at the marauders who invaded their home or the bastard that dared to dwell among their bones.

They chain his arms above his head, binding him to a loop of rusty iron that, after standing the test of several hard tugs, winds up being far sturdier than it looks. A tension settles into his spine at the closeness as they maneuver his limbs and peel the armor away from his torso. Jon's breath catches in his throat as a wandering hand subtly gropes his groin through his trousers; he thrashes once in his binds and is rewarded with a fist which propels itself ruthlessly into his jaw. When he recovers, the men chuckle amongst themselves as he spits blood at their boots. 

"Well done, men. Now leave us." 

They obey, first lighting two torches nearby. Jon breathes a heavy breath through his nose, steeling himself as he lifts his eyes to meet those of a grinning Ramsay Bolton. Even chained, wounded and bloody, his muscles coil with the desire to curl his fingers around that pale throat, to feel Ramsay's nails clawing frantically at his hands as the life seeps from his eyes. Jon has never been a vengeful man.

"Fitting, isn't it?" The Bolton Bastard cranes his neck, as if admiring the structure in awe. "You may die here," he says flippantly, "but you will not rest here. No no, that would be disrespectful. I'd dare not desecrate this place with a bastard's bones." At Jon's silence, the man feigns offense. "I do have some amount of integrity, Jon."

At the utterance of his name, Jon stifles a grimace.

"You know," Ramsay chuckles, "that's twice now." He shakes his head in mock disbelief, "twice within a single battle that you've charged in blindly with these heroic intentions, only to fail miserably." He shrugs, "I suppose I could admire that. You don't care much for the process of things, do you? No, you strike me as a man of results," he grimaces and sucks a sharp breath through his teeth, "and naïve to a fault, if I may add. Even now, I'll bet you'll bravely endure whatever you're put through because you know that on the other side of things, my forces truly can't hold Winterfell and you're right, but neither do you have the men for a swift siege." Ramsay steps forward, hands clasped excitedly behind his back. "So it seems we could both be here together for a while. I do have plenty of games we can play-"

"Enough," Jon spits. Ramsay's brows rise with intrigue. "Do what you're going to do."

The Bolton Bastard grins, "A man of results." From his belt comes a small blade that shimmers in the torch fire. "Welcome home, Lord Snow."


	2. Bane

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Warning: Non-Graphic Depictions of Rape.

Winterfell is old. Though Jon has never been particularly bookish, the histories of his home have always fascinated him. Before he'd seen the Wall with his own eyes, it seemed unfathomable that the same man who'd built such a stupendous structure had also laid the first bricks of his own home.

Now it is a stranger's home, a home to madness and chaos and pain. The cold stone eyes of his ancestors love to remind him of it, to remind him of his failure.

A keening song of sorrow had rung in his heart when finally he was left in the company of only the dead, one he'd stifled deeply for years. Ramsay had planned for this, Jon knew. It is no mistake that he'd been positioned to face his father's tomb, though his differed strangely from the rest. While the others peered at him with reproach, Lord Eddard's chiseled eyes held absolutely nothing. Where he'd sought to find warmth, or comfort, or even condemnation, he'd found only a cold emptiness. He's wondered since if his father's bones had ever been properly returned to Winterfell, and the thought cinches his chest with grief.

Exhaustion has been quick to set in, its effects enhanced by blood loss. The absence of natural light and the erratic spurts of unconsciousness skew all concept of time. Ramsay visits often with eyes dancing hungrily over his flesh, but all wounds inflicted thusfar have been superficial, his leg excluded. The tender skin of his upper arm had been the first to be subjected to the Bolton house tradition and though the exposed muscle radiates with fire, Jon supposes the action had been intended mostly to intimidate him. Soon after, Ramsay had taken the blade to his ribs where the skin is far thinner, and the pain far worse.

Jon is no stranger to the theory of these things, as injury has been abundant in his repertoire over the years. One must merely learn to control their breath through the agony, Joer Mormont had taught him this when the cold was at its most bitter. Jon has employed this strategy often, and more successfully each time. This far dealing with Ramsay has be ghastly, but bearable.

Admittedly, the biggest discomfort is the company.

Ramsay often brings men down with him to stand guard to gods-know-what, for it's painfully clear that Jon will not prove to be a threat. As Ramsay works him over, however, he monitors them in his periphery. Their eyes never wander, never flit to their surroundings in boredom but they also lack the stiffness of men fearful to disobey. No, they watch because they want to, because they like to watch him fight not to squirm as their eyes crawl over his body like spiders.

From the shadows, Ramsay saunters suddenly forth with a toothy grin which Jon longs to eradicate. "Your sister is here, isn't that exciting?" The nausea Jon has been repressing since his capture suddenly floods his nerves and drains his face of color. Seeing this, Ramsay barks with laughter, "Oh no no, she's outside. Outside the gates with all the rest of them, I should have specified. It's so heartwarming, the way she refuses to give up on you." he pauses, "Or is it me she won't give up on? Have you entertained the thought that your beloved sister might find more motivation in killing me than in saving you?"

The former Lord Commander clears his throat, suddenly reminded of how long it's been since he's tasted water. "Aye," he rasps, "seems your days are numbered either way."

"As are yours, bastard," Ramsay hisses in a fleeting moment of faulted composure. The smile quickly settles back on his lips and he steps forward, absently twirling a small blade in his hand. "You know, it's silly of me to expect you to understand my desire to have her back with me, really. The bond between a husband and wife is sacred, but you wouldn't know much about that, would you bastard? I imagine your adulterous father hadn't much to teach you about proper marriage." 

Ramsay pauses, seemingly disappointed when Jon doesn't react to the words. No, he'd become immune to jests regarding his bastardom long ago. _"Never forget what you are,"_ Jon recites silently, _"the rest of the world will not. Wear it like armor and it can never be used to hurt you."_

Ramsay huffs a nearly imperceivable breath and continues, "Infidelity has no place in a marriage, wouldn't you agree? You'll be glad to know I kept your sister only for myself, though my men were quite vocal in their objections." Ramsay trails the blade between the hills of Jon's chest. "But the men are fond of you, I must say. They'll be glad to know such obligations do not bind you as they did her."

Ramsay staggers back as a thick wad of blood and spit hits him squarely in the eye and had fury not so clouded his mind, Jon might have thought admirably of his own aim. As his captor wipes the offense from his skin, Jon boldly fixes his eyes upon him. Ramsay steps forward, placing a gentle hand on the man's shoulder before leaning in close, "You will not do that again." A hard fist to Jon's gut leaves him breathless and yearning to curl in on himself, though his bonds would not allow him the privilege.

The fury in Ramsay's expression melts quickly into a remorseful frown as he sits at the table at the far end of the room. "You know, I owe you an apology, Lord Snow." Jon breathlessly raises his eyes. "You see, I've always prided myself on being a hospitable man and yet, here you are with all this blood and grit all over you. You must be so uncomfortable." A shrill whistle has two armor-clad men entering the room, wooden buckets splashing at their sides. Wordlessly, they douse him in waters as frigid as he's ever felt and though Jon is not unused to cold, his muscles seize with shock. A familiar panic creeps into his bones and he sputters and gasps for air, chunks of ice ricocheting off of his skull and skidding on the stone floor. Vaguely, he registers Ramsay's voice through the sloshing around his ears and suddenly, the water ceases.

Ramsay steps forward, "You know what has been baffling me this whole time?" Save for a flurry of rapid, shuddering breaths, Jon remains silent. The man breathes a sigh of irritation and brandishes a blade from his belt, resting it upon his own chin. "Go on, ask me."

Jon's jaw tightens, though he eyes the men staring silently nearby and complies with a violent shiver. "What has been baffling you this whole time?"

"Very good, thank you. What's baffled me is this," Ramsay smiles, "as pitiful as your forces were, you somehow managed to convince some two-thousand men to pledge their swords to you. Why you? What makes you so important that these men would risk everything to ride into battle for you?" He pauses in thought, " _If_ you could call it a battle. Before my wife showed, it was really more of a slaughter, wouldn't you agree?" Again, Jon is silent. With a sigh of exasperation, Ramsay takes a menacing step closer, pressing sharp steel to his captive's jugular. "When someone asks you a question, it's polite to respond. I'll ask again, do you agree?"

An internal battle between wisdom and pride furiously commences within him and Jon grits his teeth. A subtle thought with Sansa's voice whispers, _save your strength._ He reluctantly answers, "I agree."

The tip of the blade digs further into stubbled skin, drawing a drop of blood which slithers down his neck. "Now, now," Ramsay scolds, "Address me properly." 

The barely healed scabs on Jon's knuckles split as his fingers knot with rage. "I agree, _my lord."_

Ramsay abruptly steps back. "Good. Now, where were we? Ah, yes!" The childlike brightness in the man's eyes contrasts sharply to the darkness within Jon's. "So, let me simplify it for you. I was a bastard, just like you. However, I was legitimized; I carry an important name now and my men follow me for that name. Do you understand? So tell me, why do your men follow you?"

Jon's gaze remains unwavering, jaw tight. "I don't know, my lord."

Ramsay rolls his eyes, "You really don't know much," he raps the pommel of the dagger against Jon's skull, "do you, bastard? Ah!" In an instant, he brightens. "That's it, isn't it? You carry yourself well, like a highborn would carry himself. If I recall correctly, you were even wearing the Stark sigil when we met. That must be it. They think you're a Stark." His demeanor shifts suddenly to that of a scolding parent. "Lord Snow, that's horribly deceitful of you. Men have died for you, died for a name that you don't even carry." He taps the blade to his own chin in thought, "I know! They need... something to jog their memories. A reminder, if you will, of what you truly are."

Ramsay approaches, blade in hand and the rawest evil radiating in his pupils. Jon sucks in a breath but remains otherwise expressionless, refusing to give the madman the satisfaction of seeing him panic. The pounding in his chest quickens as Ramsay disappears behind him. "Alright, now hold still. I've always been scolded for my sloppy penmanship."

The steel pierces his skin and Jon's presses his eyes tightly shut as the blade slices this way and that across his shoulders, leaving trails of fire in its wake. Though he does his best to occupy his mind with comforting things, of Tormund and Davos and Sansa plotting his liberation just outside the walls, the pain pulls him back jealously each time. Jon breathes a relieved breath when finally he seems to conclude whatever masterpiece he's sculpting into his flesh, but when Ramsay takes the blade back to its initial position and begins to retrace the ragged lines, Jon's vision swims.

"Why are you here, Jon?"

Let Ramsay attribute his silence to pride, but in truth it is the pain which keeps his lips tightly locked.

The steel twists sharply in his flesh and he forces a growl from deep in his gut, "I wanted to kill you."

Ramsay's eyes go wide in feigned horror before a chuckle spills from his lips, "That turned out well for you, didn't it?" Left, over, then down goes the blade once more. "Why, Jon, do you want to kill me?"

Between labored breaths, he speaks. "Winterfell belongs to Sansa." Breathe in, then out. "And you deserve to die."

"That's very heroic of you. Your father would be proud." Ramsay pauses curiously, "Though, I'd be willing to bet a great many of the Northern houses would support your claim to Winterfell over my wife's. Did you consider that?" Jon remains silent, unwilling to dignify the accusation with a response but also too preoccupied with drawing air into his lungs to speak. Ramsay shakes his head, "No no, you're too honorable for all that. You just wanted to protect the Stark name, to protect your family. Very inspiring, how fiercely you defend a name that isn't even yours. But you know, it's funny," he chuckles, "I'd heard that your brother had actually made plans to legitimize you before my father murdered him." Fury floods through Jon's veins and in his mind's eye, Roose Bolton and his son die a hundred different ways.

Ramsay pauses suddenly and tugs the blade from his flesh with a foul squelch "Turn turn, other side." In a weary act of defiance, Jon remains motionless. That is, until a finger wriggles down into the ragged flesh beside his spine. With an arch of his back and a choked gasp, he complies. 

This time, he can see the blade descending toward his skin, which somehow makes it worse.

His captor continues. "It's a shame, really. You were so close to everything I'm sure you've ever wanted. A real name, a real family." There is a pregnant pause and his tone turns suddenly to ice. "But let me make this clear to you, Snow." The cuts come harsher now, not with the surgical precision in which Ramsay had exercised before and each word is punctuated by an angry blade tearing erratically through his flesh. "You. Will. _Never._ Be. One. Of. Them," he says. "They might not even realize it themselves, not fully. But no matter how hard you try, no matter how many times you lay down your life for them, they will always see you as the worm that shamed their family."

Finally, the madman wrenches the blade from his skin and silently demands his attention. Jon raises his gaze to meet a pair of cold, merciless eyes which send shivers down his spine. "Let this be a reminder to you too, for they-" he waves the bloodied knife at the statues of his ancestors, "-will not forget." 

With little ceremony, Ramsay is gone with a slam of the door and his shoulders sag as he sways unsteadily on his good leg. As darkness pushes at the edges of his vision, he forces his eyes down to the gory mess at his chest. Ragged, swollen skin and a slick of blood obscures the lettering but even upside down, the word is clear.

_Bastard._

* * *

It's impossible for him to tell how much time has passed when a blow to the head jolts him from his state of semi-lucidity. As the haze clears, he finds himself peering up at several soldiers who gaze him with lustful eyes and malicious grins. A sudden, overwhelming sense of vulnerability settles into his bones and he shifts uncomfortably under the penetrating gaze. One of the more portly men steps forward with a vile, yellow-toothed grin and snags a fistful of raven hair. "He's a pretty one, eh?" His comrades cackle as he tugs Jon's head back firmly, "With those curls, it will be just like being with a woman again." 

The implication shouldn't come as a surprise to him, he knows that, but Jon's gut drops to his feet. A primal urge to fight wells rapidly in his spirit and though he knows any attempt would result in more harm than good, when a menacing hand gropes his most intimate area he can repress the instinct no longer. Numbed by adrenaline, he brings a knee up hard into the man's groin and the soldier stumbles back with an anguished yelp, clutching the area in pain. A gloved hand clamps then around Jon's throat. "Still got some fight in him." The watchman lifts his chin both in defiance and in an effort to loosen the grip at his windpipe. "Let's see how hard it is to tame a wolf, boys." 

The soldier reaches down to the arrow that protrudes still from his thigh, curling grimy fingers around the shaft and twisting hard. The steel tears ruthlessly through the tender muscle and a short, choked gasp is the only sound that has time to leave his lips before he sags pitifully into unconsciousness. A hard palm to his cheek pulls him jealously back and from there, he remains in something of a pain-induced haze as they grope him and spit doltish insults into his ear. Lucidity returns to him fully as they begin to fumble with bloodied trousers which remain pinned to him by the arrow in his thigh. Instinctively, his muscles coil to attack once again-

Sansa. _Save your strength._

-and, obediently, he endures. 

Little is done to preserve his dignity but he prays they won't attempt to tear the fabric away and further aggrivate the wound. In that moment, the harsh reality of his helplessness hits him, accompanied by a swell of nausea. The men cackle over obvious jokes regarding his manhood and though Jon fights it, warmth rushes to his cheeks.

When the first man does his deed, it hurts. It tears through him like fire and pierces his heart like shards of glass. Jon bucks and thrashes in meager attempt to preserve a shred of pride and it seems to only fuel their image of him as a feral beast to conquer but still, he fights. As the first soldier removes himself, Jon wavers unsteadily on his feet but gathers enough vigor to spit blood at a man's eye. Unsurprisingly, he's rewarded with a swift backhand as the next man takes his place.

There are four total, or perhaps five and they all tug his hair and grip his hips with bruising force. One man takes to leaving a trail of red welts where he sinks his teeth into Jon's shoulders. Two of the others are particularly enthusiastic in their release and propel him roughly forward with their final thrusts, forcing him to put weight on his injured leg.

Blinking back tears, he lifts his eyes to those of his father, silently begging for resilience, for comfort, but the stone is cold and hard. Swallowing his disappointment, he bows his head.

Eventually, having exhausted any other option, his eyes glaze over and as his body is used in whichever manner his rapists please, his mind wanders. Fleeting images of Arya, of Bran and Rickon and Sansa and Robb, of Ygritte and Sam and Edd and Tormund. As they each dance through his mind's eye, a strange sense of shame washes over him. With vague regard to his own body, which jolts forward with each thrust of the man behind him, he decides that their memory has no place here. After that, he doesn't think of them anymore. Instead, he drifts into a thoughtless sea of gray. 

They fasten his breeches back when they're finished and a red stain blooms quickly between his thighs.

The men depart and though the act has ended, something in his mind bars him from lucidity like a mother protecting her child from a hot fire. Just as darkness begins to seep into the edges of his vision, a harsh noise jolts him back. Nearby, Ramsay stands, his cup dropped purposefully at his side. His captor stares silently, drinking in the sight of a man nearly broken before him and only then does Jon become aware of the wetness on his cheeks. Several moments pass and finally, his gaze dips to the floor in submission. 

Then, drawing from a dwindling reservoir of strength, he straightens and returns Ramsay's gaze with gritted teeth.

Ramsay smiles.


	3. Ultimatum

_Chaos. The air is thick with death and naught can be heard over the clashing of steel and the howling of dying men. Longclaw is swung furiously this way and that, but the steel bounces off of enemy armor as harmlessly as if it had been swung by a child. Meanwhile, the enemy cuts through their defenses as easily as if they'd had no weapons at all. The bodies accumulate quickly, forming mounds taller than the walls of Winterfell and suddenly, he finds himself at their epicenter. That familiar, debilitating panic creeps into his bones as he is forced down, down, down and the pressure is so intense, so crushing that it sends colors splashing across his vision. No air, no air, he needs air._

_Suddenly, he finds himself face down in a blanket of fresh snow. There is an ominous tension in his spine but he ignores it because perhaps if he does, he will be left alone. Either way, there's a weariness that cuts deep down to his bones and he wonders if he simply has nothing left to fight with. But, being a true Northerner too stubborn to allow death to take him so easily, he lifts his eyes. Perhaps this is hell because surrounding him is an army, all tattered and bloody and staring at him with cold blue eyes. This sea of living corpses extends for miles, so far that he cannot see what lies beyond. He rises slowly and his breath catches in his throat as there stands father, and Robb, and Ygritte and Commander Mormont, and even Lady Catelyn, but not as they once were._

_Then, with a deafening symphony of screeches, they lunge. He fumbles for Longclaw but, to his horror, finds it absent from its sheath. Defenseless, he can only attempt to shield himself as they claw mercilessly at his flesh and as his insides spill out before him with a sickening splatter, he screams._

When Jon awakens, it's to a cold sweat and a crippling panic as he fights to fill his lungs. Reality is nearly as horrifying, but Jon prefers it, though the exhaustion and blood loss blur the lines a bit too much for his liking.

He cannot specify how much time has passed, as his only indication is drawn from the merciless twist of hunger which grows ever more fierce. It isn't that they deny him, but merely his pride is his own worst enemy. In his mind, he truly wonders if Ramsay expects him to submit to being spoonfed by the man who invaded his home, by his sister's rapist and his brother's murderer.

Eventually, Ramsay seems to grow tired of his game and ceases his offers altogether. It's a long while before they finally present him again with a small cup of putrid drink and Jon is wise enough to know he can't stand much longer without it. With a sobering breath, he swallows his dignity and his better judgment in favor of survival and chokes it down as swiftly as he can, silently burying the shame of his obedience. The rancid liquid is the furthest thing from refreshing and he must consciously fight to keep it down, wondering melodramatically if perhaps dehydration would have been kinder.

They begin to offer him nourishment more consistently after that most often in the form of stale bits of bread and sips of water. It's enough to sustain him, but not enough for him to regain his strength and so when men come for him in the night with intentions of conquering him, he can do naught but grit his teeth and spit blood at their boots. No, his dwindling strength must be reserved for the preservation of his mind. Ramsay toys with him often, presenting him with the notion of freedom if he'd only admit defeat and relinquish Sansa back into his hands. Jon's answer is ever unchanging, though it often results with a blade to his skin or a group of men being sent to further defile him.

He doesn't look to father when they do their deed anymore. The emptiness in his eyes has not abated, but neither does that lessen the humiliation.

Perhaps most surprisingly, Jon has begun to prefer the company of Ramsay and his men and the thought sends a wave of disgust over him, but it's these moments of solitude where he's forced to truly confront the crippling despair that is oft buried beneath his anger. Jon has never been one to dwell in the moment, he's far too present-minded for that. It's these moments of quiet following the torment where its merely him and the statues, those horrible statues with their stoic faces and disdainful eyes. _"You are not welcome here,"_ they'll whisper, their lips twisting. _"You failed us with your birth, and you've failed us again."_

The sound of footsteps and Jon's lifts his eyes to the Bolton patriarch standing before him, a cloth tossed over his shoulder and a wooden bucket sloshing quietly at his side.

"Good morning!" Ramsay greets him cheerily, but there's a subtle tension in his demeanor that has not gone unnoticed to Jon in their recent visits. It draws his shoulders together and sends a ripple through his clenched jaw, even as he bears his teeth in that Cheshire grin. It has not escaped his attention that his presence has become more and more scarce and he instead has taken to sending his men to do the tormenting. Jon knows nothing of what has transpired at the surface in his absence but if it's enough to disquiet this madman, it must be promising.

Though his visits are few and far between, they are never lacking.

The thumping in his ears grows louder with each step Ramsay takes toward his helpless form, but he forces stabilizing breaths evenly and quietly through his nose. "Well," the madman says, setting the bucket down at his side. "You're pretty disgusting, aren't you?"

Jon doesn't disagree.

"We have a big day ahead of us, you know." The cloth drops to the bucket with a tiny splash. "We can't have you looking like that."

Dark irises follow Ramsay's hands warily as they reach to wring out the saturated cloth over the water. Instinctively, he stiffens as the man reaches for the bloodied mess at his chest. 

Ramsay curls his lip, almost apologetically. "This may sting a little."

Jon winces in anticipation, but the man is far more tender than he would have imagined. However, does little to alleviate the tension in his shoulders. A penetrating sense of vulnerability seeps into his spine as the proximity between them is reduced to naught in such a tender, almost parental way. Ramsay moves slowly, dipping between the curves of his chest and then his abdomen and taking extra care when moving over the eternally unhealed stab wounds. Much of the blood is crusted and dried now, and though his wounds whine in protest, Ramsay takes care to remove the grime with tiny, gentle circles. The water shifts quickly from clear to a murky rust color as Ramsay repeatedly transfers the cloth from his skin to the bucket, always followed by dark eyes.

It's fitting, Jon thinks, that Ramsay would take such an intimate, innocent act and taint it in such a way. It's deeply unsettling to Jon as this horror of a man sweeps over every inch of his skin, this man that now likely knows just as much about his body as Jon himself does. It's an abrupt change from the sadistic, blade-wielding Ramsay to which he has become accustomed, but somehow it unnerves him even more.

Soon, his upper half is as spotless as it seems it's going to get. Unmasked by a sheen of dried blood, the cuts have grown puffy and angry, the menacing red arms of infection beginning to stretch across his skin. Most of his skin which hasn't yet met a blade is instead marred with deep purple bruises. Jon does not dwell on this, however. Not when the implication of what's to come stands before him with expectant eyes.

Ramsay smiles jovially, "Much better! But there's still work to be done, I'm afraid." 

An automated growl rumbles in Jon's throat, but he's learned better than to dispute Ramsay's sadistic games. In reality it matters little, for his body has little opposition left in it. Though it twists his heart and boils his northern blood, he's silent as the man's fingers twist delicately at the binding of his trousers.

_Save your strength._

Warmth seeps into his cheeks as he's exposed, though it isn't the first time. "Lord Snow! No wonder the men are so fond of you." 

Ramsay takes the cloth to his leg and drives it slowly upwards. He hisses empathetically as he passes the arrow protruding from the back of Jon's thigh. "That looks like it hurts."

Jon swallows, his heart thudding so loudly in his chest that surely Ramsay can hear. The madman's next words are spoken with placidity, but they leave no room for opposition. "Open your legs." 

Exhaling, Jon steels himself. With a seething grimace of dread, he shifts his feet apart as best he can with his wounded leg. Though Ramsay's head is dipped low to wring out the cloth, the grin still shows through the subtle lift of his ears.

Blood and dried seed thickly coats his inner thighs and Ramsay takes far more time here than he did with Jon's upper half. Slowly, his work travels upward and Jon's stomach sinks deeper to the floor with every inch. Finally the rag swipes over him and sends a jolt of fierce, automated rejection through his body.

"Relax," Ramsay says calmly, "I won't hurt you." 

Jon seethes silently. _I would rather you did._

Dark eyes cling determinedly to his captor's movements, unwilling to drift off and associate this soothing touch with anything other than the violation that it is. Each moment is as torturous as the one before it and if nothing else, Jon is thankful that his body has not yet betrayed him as he imagines is the intention. An overwhelming sense of wrongness covers him and though he is as spotless as it's likely to get, Ramsay continues drawing tender circles. 

With all that's been taken from him, Jon wonders if he'll forever be stranger in his own body, now. He imagines so.

Finally, the cloth plops back into the bucket and the madman steps back with eyes glittering with satisfaction. "Perfect." The man lets loose a shrill whistle, two men filing dutifully forth. Bracing himself for what is to come, Jon raises his jaw in eternal defiance as one of the men disappears behind him. But instead of pain or blades or hands fumbling with his breeches, his arms are suddenly freed from their position above his head and bound at his front. Perplexed, and suppressing the pain of this new movement, his gaze rises.

"Don't look so glum," Ramsay says. "We're going to see my wife today."

* * *

Though the walk proves to be nearly unbearable on his wounded leg, the fresh air in his lungs compensates for the daggers shooting through his nerves. They've dressed him in the traditional northern garb, concealing the array of wounds on his torso, though nothing could be done about his trousers which remained pinned to him by the arrow.

A long rope binds his restrained wrists to Ramsay's saddle, a symbolic boot to his ego as he hobbles along behind them like a leashed dog. Now and then, Ramsay will tug hard, jolting him forward and earning a round of amused laughter from the men. Jon seethes but keeps his eyes trained on the distant cluster of gray and orange which draws swiftly closer.

After a trek made much longer by the pain in his thigh, they reach the supposed rendezvous and Ramsay dismounts. "On your knees, bastard," he commands sternly. Without pause, a boot slams into his good knee and Jon drops to the earth with a sharp intake of breath and a furious snarl. Behind him, the Bolton lord claps a gloved hand upon his shoulder and leans in close. "Now, one word out of you and I'll have arrows in their throats before you even finish speaking." Jon's jaw tightens. "Understood?" 

He swallows silently and, shockingly, Ramsay seems to accept it as an adequate display of submission. With an approving pat on the head which shoots fury through Jon's chest, the Bolton patriarch retreats to mount his horse.

A palpable tension settles as the Stark council slows to a halt before them. They sit tall atop their horses with stony faces and guarded eyes as they fight to scrutinize the damage done to their commander, and Jon can easily picture the conceited grin on Ramsay's lips behind him. Kneeling far beneath them all, his fate entirely in their hands, he has never felt smaller. Ramsay is the first to speak. "My lovely wife," he grins. Met with silence, he tugs sharply on Jon's leash, forcing him to put weight on his injured knee with a restrained grunt. "The Gods do favor you, Lord Snow. What an excellent council they've blessed you with: An old man, a savage, and a woman."

Tormund's lip curls venomously, "I murdered one of your men with my teeth." His saddle creaks as he leans forward, tilting his head. "What do you think I'll do to you, boy?"

The madman's brow rises with intrigue. "Fiery, aren't you? No matter, we're here to negotiate terms. As you can see, your commander is alive and well." Jon swallows, thankful for the garb that conceals the mutilations on his chest and the crusted blood between his thighs. Ramsay continues, "My terms remain the same. Lay down your arms, return my wife to me and I'll let you leave with your commander and your lives." 

Davis is the first to speak. "That's a lot of confidence. Now, I've never been one for numbers, but I know numbers in war." The smuggler meets Ramsay's gaze squarely. "You haven't got the resources or the men to withstand a siege."

"Would a good commander dispose of all of his men to put down a rebellion as pitiful as yours?" 

Davos speaks deliberately. "You haven't got the men, and those gates are old and worn." 

The man scoffs sharply. "You lot have a habit of underestimating me."

"So why is Jon still alive?" All eyes turn abruptly to Sansa, whose voice is as cold as her expression is hard. Ramsay grins affectionately, seemingly pleased with her sudden participation. 

"My dear wife, you know how much I love games. What fun would a dead bastard be?" When he dismounts suddenly and moves for Jon, they shift nervously and rest their hands on the hilts of their weapons. Ramsay doesn't seem to mind. "Your devotion to this man is admirable, but I can't argue with your decision." He halts just behind Jon, who is visibly swaying as the exertion begins to take its toll. The semi-lucid man jolts with surprise as a gloved hand grips his jaw, appraising him as if he were a steer. "Per my wife's request, might as well make it quick then, wouldn't you say?" 

When the sound of swords being unsheathed hits his ears, Jon realizes he is the last to register the blade at his throat. The myriad of frantic objections are paid no mind, and Ramsay swipes the blade swiftly across his throat.

A sharp sting and he's shoved roughly forward, forced to curl in on himself as the dismayed cries of his counsel fade into the background. A warm wetness trickles from the wound, but... not as aggressively as he knows it should. Experimentally, he takes a breath that comes easy, and then another, and relief floods through every nerve in his body. Shakily, he straightens to meet the pale faces of his comrades.

Ramsay's tone grows cold.

"I feel as though I've been considerate of your time, but I'm afraid my patience is wearing thin." The rag in his hand is dyed red as he swipes the blood from his dagger. "Though I must say, my men will be overjoyed to have you to themselves for another night, Snow." 

Jon's breath seizes in his throat. _Gods, let him stop talking._

But Ramsay continues, this time addressing the council. "They were so looking forward to the return of my lady wife, but you'll be proud to know that your commander has graciously been filling that hole." The man pauses curiously, "or, rather, they've been filling his. I think they like those curls of his." 

Jon's eyes snap shut and he silently wills his body to float away with the breeze in a cloud of dust as blood rushes to his cheeks. In the darkness behind his eyelids, he can still see their disgust as they look down on their shamed and defiled commander. Jon would let Ramsay take the blade to his skin a hundred times over rather than see that.

The madman continues, "Return my wife to me and I'll see to it that you aren't all slaughtered. Make your decision quickly." He turns to Sansa, "I'm sure I'll be seeing you again soon, my love."

Rough hands pull Jon to his feet and turning his back on his comrades to return to the hell below is among one of the hardest things he's ever had to do. Pangs of both humiliation and longing grip his heart as he feels their eyes burning into his back. 

Sansa had spoken truth - his own expendability is directly dependent on the size of the Bolton forces. The fact that he still breathes breath is a clear indicator of his captor's bluff and though he'd played it off, Ramsay had been on the defensive. The man is as unpredictable as they come, and Jon can't imagine how dangerous he will be when backed into a corner.

While he despises the thought, Ramsay's words begin to pry at the edges of what he knows as truth and the brand in his flesh throbs at the memory. While he dare not question the honor of his council, he is is no fool to the ways of these things. Winterfell is the prize and, in truth, his life stands as the only obstacle keeping the Stark sigil from the ramparts and surely any allegiance his council might have had to him is now mortally wounded. Ramsay had paraded their commander's weakness before them with little regard for subtlety, how can he expect lead and protect these people if he has failed so miserably to protect himself?

His survival now rests in his own hands and he will not remain idly by. He can't afford to.

As they lead him down the stairs, Jon eyes the arrow and silently braces himself for the consequences to come. With a resolving breath, he allows his legs to give out beneath him.

The men beside him struggle with his sudden dead weight before losing their grip and allowing him to plummet down the stairs, twisting and rolling. It's a long way down and Jon cannot restrain the cries of pain as each and every step smashes into each and every wound he's obtained. In a brief moment of lucidity and determination, he wrenches his leg into the steps and cries out as the head of the arrow emerges from his skin.

Finally, mercifully, he slams to the bottom in a tangle of limbs and blood, shaking pitifully and restraining agonized sobs. Men are on him in an instant, bellowing agitated insults as they yank him to his feet by his hair.

As they chain him, his fading vision catches the bloodied arrowhead that protrudes from his skin and a hazy resilience flares in his chest.

* * *

A deep, pulsing sound has Jon's head bobbing weakly with a feeble attempt to rouse himself. Three soldiers surge suddenly forth with an urgency that Jon has not yet seen, and it's enough to bring him to full consciousness. Without a word, his wrists are bound before him and as he's led upstairs, he cannot suppress the foreboding weight which settles on his chest.

The thunderous sound grows louder as they nearly drag his body up the stairs. When they reach the courtyard, the tenacious rallying cries of his own men pour over the walls as torch fire flickers off of the swords and anxious faces of the dwindling Bolton army. Facing the pulsing gate is a rather distraught looking Ramsay and somehow, the man strikes more unease into Jon without that sinister grin than he does with it.

As they approach the center of the courtyard, he is shoved hard to his knees and met with a sudden sharpness at the base of his skull. "Do you think their arrows will reach me faster than mine can reach you, bastard?" Jon's heart races at his captor's words. However, it is clear that Ramsay's attention is drawn more to the shuddering gates and he realizes that it may be now or never. With that, calloused fingers discreetly curl around the bloodstained arrow shaft.

With a mighty crash, the gates buckle and give way to a wave of men wielding swords and notched bows. The sight fills Jon with both a pride and a sorrow so strong it sends a prickle of tears to his eyes; or perhaps it is simply the weight of the moment that has hit him, he can't be sure. Then, numbed by adrenalin and with all the strength he has left in his tortured bones, he wrenches the projectile from his flesh and whirls around, driving it upward menacingly. At that same moment, Ramsay releases his own arrow.

Jon thinks of death often, having experienced it personally. Specifically, the faces of his men as they slid iron and steel into his belly are a brand burned upon his mind and although their betrayal wrenches his heart ever still, he considers their ignorance to have been far more concerning than their disloyalty. Hardhome has etched a larger agenda on his heart, much larger than the doltish politics at the Wall. Even in the small hours of the night when his dreams are stricken with mutiny and fire in his belly, the raw evil of the Night King's gaze pierces through the familiar fog of his subconscious as clear as day, so clear that Jon subtly suspects that a sort of supernatural tie has formed between them. When the dawn breaks, he reassures himself that the rest of the world will soon recognize the war to come and rally together to ward off the darkness. More and more each day, Jon realizes what a stupid man he is. 

Now, as he stands shakily with an arrow between his ribs and a makeshift dagger plunged deep in Ramsay's gut, he is struck suddenly with how little it all matters; for it isn't Ramsay who bears his gaze at Jon, but the icy blue eyes of the Night King.

As he crumples to the earth, a second arrow sings over his head and into the madman's shoulder. The world shifts in and out of focus as steel clashes and men wail all around him. A soft voice, gruff but gentle cuts through the noise. Though he can't distinguish the words, he recognizes a weathered face. "Davos."

The smuggler nods gruffly. "Aye, and keep those eyes open. Understand?" Jon complies as much as he is able though each time his lids flutter, a fingerless hand jostles his shoulder insistently. _Just let me sleep..._

Tiredly, his head rolls to the side and he is able to observe the skirmish in an attempt to remain rooted in consciousness. Most of the Bolton soldiers are quick to throw down their swords, and the few who aren't are eradicated swiftly. A glint of red catches his eye and there stands Sansa, stoic and tall with eyes trained coldly on something behind him. Wearily, he turns.

The last remaining Bolton bears an unwavering gaze which Sansa fiercely returns. The second arrow protrudes proudly from his shoulder like a banner of conquest and though it is clear that he's lost, still he carries on with a vile, bloody-toothed grin. In this moment, nothing in Jon's heart further trumps his desire to place himself between the pair, to slam his knuckles over and over and over into his face until his invading eyes swell shut.

But the darkness that envelops his vision will not allow it.

* * *


	4. Respite

It's the most brutal sort of irony, the exact sort of irony that Ramsay had so loved to exploit. Sansa supposes her former husband had rubbed off on her in that way and under different circumstances, such a thought might sicken her. However, the sweet melody of her former husband's screams harmonized by tearing flesh and the snarl of his hounds effectively mute her concerns. When his wailing finally ceases, for the first time in a very long while she is well and truly free.

Mostly.

In truth, the sight of her sigil billowing from the ramparts is altogether beautiful and immensely terrifying, like finally breaking the surface of the water to find only empty, open ocean. Already, the fortress bustles nearly as it had before she'd stepped foot outside the walls all those years ago. There has been little time for rest, yet she expertly maintains her poise for the sake of her people and aptly executes all of the duties in which the Lady of Winterfell should keep. It's the first ounce of purpose she's felt in years, and she thrives in it.

While exhausting, Sansa is grateful for the business of her position. It does well to keep her mind from drifting into the Great Keep where the maester does his work on her brother. She'd stationed him appropriately in father's former chambers, though she must subdue the subtle whisper of her Lady Mother's disdain in her ear. When she retires each night, she arduously notes the servants emerging from his chambers with bloodied hands and an air of urgency. A pang of guilt cinches her heart like a fist as she recalls the image of broken body, recalls the arrow sliding through his ribs before he'd crumpled into the dirt. Sansa has never considered herself to be prone to cowardice, but she's not yet been able to bring herself to face him, not yet. Not after all she's put him through.

It's late in the day when word of his condition is brought to her by Ser Davos. "My lady, promising news from Maester Colemon."

The pen stills in her hand. "He will heal, than?"

"Aye, with time," he assures. "He's awake now, and asking after you."

"I-" she swallows and grasps at her failing composition. "I'm sure he should be resting-"

The elder man sighs and helps himself to the seat beside her. "My lady, if I may-" she nods, "I've seen how memories can torment, I see it in you. You know firsthand that the wounds to his body will only be half the battle."

"Have you seen him?"

"Aye. He was under the influence of the poppy at the time, but what I saw in his eyes..." he trails off, turning to meet her gaze with an earnest boldness. "My lady, I know what it's like to feel responsible for a horror falling on someone you love, and I know what it's like to be alone in the world. Please, do not let this guilt that you feel push him away."

A subtle prickle at her eyes which she furiously suppresses and finally, she concedes with a small nod of her head.

The journey to Jon's chambers is altogether one of the longest and shortest walks she's ever made. Each step echoes hollowly from the stone and brings a different scenario where she loses yet another piece of her family, where she loses her brother forever. It's for that reason that she steels herself thoroughly as her delicate fingers curl around the door handle. A resolving breath, then another, and she presses forward.

When she enters, the air is thick with blood and a heavy medicinal twinge. Not a step and a half inside and a flash of solid white springs forth, greeting her with a fierce snarl. Sansa halts calmly and knowingly as candlelight glints off of the direwolf's exposed teeth, ruby red eyes gazing deeply into her own averted ones.

A voice, hoarse and barely audible. "Ghost."

The pale beast hesitates, ears flicking back to his master as he whiffs the air around her and admittedly, Sansa must stifle a pang of offense. A tense moment passes and, seemingly convinced, the wolf snorts and obediently leaps into the bed beside his master. Sansa swallows as she steps forward, drinking in her brother's image for the first time since they'd stormed the castle. The absence of dirt and blood on his skin is a far less gruesome sight but he also seems suddenly far smaller, far less feral and far more broken. An abundance of bandages does well to conceal what must be a myriad of wounds and though justice may have been brought, Ramsay has undoubtedly left his mark on them both.

"I shouldn't be here."

Sansa jumps at the sudden sound which jolts her from her reverie, that likely being his intention. The words are soft and slurred from the residual effects of the narcotics and she must take a moment to find her tongue, for she'd expected incensed silence at the very least. "You nearly weren't," she admits, "We nearly lost you in the beginning, so the maester says-"

"No," he interjects, "I mean _here_ , father's room." An overwhelming sense of relief floods through her at the small upward curvature of his lips, though she dare not allow herself to hope.

"I think it's fitting," she counters.

An obstinate puff of air through his nose, "You think those men will take kindly to a bastard sleeping in their lord's chambers?"

"They will when that same bastard-" the word tastes sour on her lips, "-is responsible for bringing them home in the first place."

Seemingly unconvinced but too weary to protest, he concedes with a soft sigh. A darkness settles suddenly over his features, "so, is he...?"

A fleeting image of blood and tearing flesh flashes before her eyes, "Yes."

There's little relief in his demeanor, merely a barely perceptible sag of his shoulders. "Good." With that, they speak no more of him. Finding boldness, she helps herself to the seat beside his bed.

"Are you in much pain?"

"No," he answers a bit too quickly and she raises her brows in knowing accusation. He breathes a soft chuckle which, as if to spite his words, has him wincing sharply and reaching for his ribs where the arrow had been buried. As he maneuvers his body back to rest against the headboard, the sheet falls to pool beneath his navel and her breath catches in her throat. Twin clusters of bruises at his hips which she recognizes from her own body, and if she were to squint she imagines she'd see the tiny red crescents where fingernails had pierced his skin. Ramsay had made his men's intentions with Jon sickeningly clear, she'd desperately hoped it had been merely a jab intended to humiliate him, or perhaps to taunt her. The fact that it had clearly been more than that comes as hardly a surprise, but neither does it lessen the devastation. 

When Jon raises his eyes to her, something flashes over his features and the color drains from his face. With feigned nonchalance, he tugs a sheet over the evidence. "Has the peace been kept? Anyone giving you trouble?"

Her response is autonomous. "No, no trouble."

"What of Littlefinger?"

"What of him?" With a wooden smile, she speaks. "He's glad to have had the honor of helping us reclaim Winterfell."

"Sansa," her name falls from his lips with a great heaviness attached. "If he tries anything with you-" A familiar flame swells then in her brother's eyes and though she cannot take his promise to heart, it is comforting to know Ramsay has not left him the shell of a man he'd intended.

"Truly, you've no need to worry."

"Alright," he says, "I trust you."

The smile on her face very nearly shifts to a grimace, but she circumvents the topic. Instead, she notes the thin sheen of sweat which has begun to glisten on his pale skin and she recalls how strenuous the simple task of conversation can be when one bears such wounds. In her periphery, a cup of cloudy gray liquid sits forgotten at his bedside table. Wordlessly, she reaches pale fingers to wrap around it's neck and presents it to him silently. With a hefty sigh, he downs the glass in two swift swigs and it isn't long until his lids began to flutter in a meager attempt to keep conscious. Suspecting that her brother won't allow sleep to claim him easily, she recites a monotonous tale of the time Septa Mordane misplaced her finest embroidery loop. It isn't long before his breaths finally slow and he sags against the headboard in slumber. Conceitedly, she grins.

The hour is late but she does not move to retire, a sharp contrast of her avoidance of him in the days prior. In fact, she cannot bring herself to leave his side and as the night drags on, slumber finally claims her as swiftly as an assassin's dagger. When she awakens in a flutter of bronzed lashes, she awakens to her brother writhing in his sheets in the throws of a nightmare.

"Jon," she beckons, gathering her bearings quickly. "Jon, wake up." Innocently, she reaches forth to gently shake his shoulder and he jolts away from her touch as if she's burned him. Suddenly, the movements become more violent and dots of bright red begin to appear beneath his bandages. Thinking quickly, she leaps upon the bed and pins his wrists as best she can, thankful for the weakness his wounds have brought him. Unfortunately, it seems to only fuel his desire to escape whatever invisible force assaults him.

A particularly violent thrash nearly sends her flying to the floor. _"Jon!"_

Finally, he bolts upward with such force that he nearly knocks foreheads with her. "Don't," he gasps, breathless and disconcerted as his eyes search the darkness for his bearings. "No more."

With little pause she releases her hold on him, being no stranger to these things and unwilling to further contribute to his confusion. "Jon," she soothes, "it's me, it's Sansa. You're safe."

The wetness on his cheeks shines silver in the moonlight and she can sense the suspicion in his eyes. Of course, he believes it to be a ruse. Cautiously, she places her hand over calloused knuckles and guides his fingers upward to the veil of tresses which spills from her head. Moments pass and she guides his hand further up to rest against her cheek. "It's me."

Slowly, almost disbelievingly, he traces the curve of her jaw with his thumb and reality finally seems to settle in his mind. Suddenly, he withdraws and runs a trembling hand over his hair. There's a familiarity in his expression which has Sansa recalling the initial days of her marriage to Ramsay, albeit much more vividly than she intends to. In that moment, she sees through to the battered and broken man that Jon has tried so hard to conceal, she sees _herself_.

They sit together in silence for a long while, gazing into the fire at it flickers and cracks in the hearth. When finally he speaks, his words are small. "Does it get better?"

She sighs grimly.

"If it does, I'll let you know."

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Admittedly I'm not feeling this chapter a ton, but it had to be done.
> 
> Also, I'd really love to find a beta reader for this. If anyone would be interested in taking on the task future chapters please let me know.
> 
> I hope you enjoyed!


	5. Purge

A lifetime ago, which also happens to be another life entirely, Jon had once envied his siblings in their illness. Quite clearly he recalls the way Lady Catelyn would shoo him from their chambers as she coaxed foul liquids down their throats with soothing words and soft kisses to their temples. He will be forever grateful for the dutiful hands of Old Nan and Maester Luwin, but they were no substitute for the unconditional love of a mother. Sansa's hands are soft and cool and just the way he used to imagine Lady Catelyn's would have been, albeit far more smooth and beautiful.

Silently he lifts his eyes and though his vision is skewed by the effects of the poppy, still he is greeted by the image of her seated dutifully beside him. Having not yet made his consciousness known, he hazily observes as she strains her eyes over her needlework, tresses forming a bronze veil around her face. It's a strange and lovely thing, he muses. Her continued presence is in sharp contrast of the young girl who he'd grown up with, the girl whose meager acknowledgment of his existence once consisted only of obligatory niceties. In truth, he doesn't blame her, nor does he resent her for it. He is the living embodiment of her family's dishonor and her mother had surely raised her never to forget it.

When she retires for the evening with a soft kiss at his temple and a promise to return at first light, he returns her affection with a wooden smile and stifles the small voice in his mind which whispers of her inevitable renunciation. Past experiences have taught him never to be too careful, never to trust too wholly even of those considered to be family, but neither does that lessen the guilt of doubting her.

As it seems, her promise is indeed broken, but not in a way he would have anticipated.

The fire has all but died out when the door creaks quietly open, making way for an indecipherable shadow and his eyes dart to Longclaw standing forgotten against the wall. He doubts he could properly wield it with his injuries, but such an instinct is not dependent on the limitations of the body. Finally, the figure draws close enough for the fire to illuminate her features and here she stands, feet bared and a frazzled orange braid tumbling down her shoulder. The circles beneath her eyes are nearly as dark as the torment she carries within them and he doesn't ask why, he doesn't need to.

Sometimes, he forgets the extent of her brokenness and he vows never to allow himself to do it again.

Several moments pass and he begins to wonder if perhaps she's taken to sleepwalking, or perhaps she always has. Respectfully, he maneuvers his body up into a sitting position and quietly clears the sleep from his throat. Her lips part into a soft and silent gasp at the sound, as if she herself has just realized where her feet have brought her.

Lowly and hesitantly, he breaks the silence. "Do you want to talk about it?"

Met only with silence, he speaks no more of it. Instead, he wordlessly lifts the covers in a silent invitation. With furrowed brows, she looks to him curiously and he nods to the space beside him in affirmation. With a bit of initial reluctance and mindful of his wounds, she slowly slides beneath the sheets beside him and while the proximity is something neither of them are immediately taken to, the meager comfort of each other's presence forces the awkwardness begrudgingly into submission.

They sit together silently as the night carries on, lulled by the soothing symphony of the embers crackling in the hearth.

When the first thread of morning light pierces the window, she retreats to her chambers without a word. Several hours later, as is her tradition, she returns and makes no mention of their time together. Instead, she routinely inquires after his condition and adjusts his pillows with a trace of guilt in her eyes. Later in the afternoon, when he awakens in a cold sweat and his heart pounding in his chest, she gazes at him with expectant eyes and he answers her with a halfhearted shrug. She doesn't press the matter, and he's grateful for it.

Several nights later, however, she returns. Asking silently for permission which he grants her with his eyes, she again slides beneath the covers beside him. This time, the threshold finally crumbles.

"He was here," she softly recalls, as if speaking his name too loudly would summon him from the dead. "He didn't really have a face, he was just a shadow that disappeared whenever I would look, but I knew it was him."

Jon swallows, encouraged by her transparency but knowing also that it must be treated delicately. "Then what?"

"Nothing," she shakes her head, "but no matter what I did, I still felt him there. When I woke up I could still feel his eyes on me, like he'd suddenly appear out of the corner of my room."

"Is that why you're here?"

She nods.

Jon sets his jaw resolutely. "We need to forget him."

"A neglected cut festers," she counters swiftly, turning to him. "That's what Maester Lewin used to say."

He draws his brows together. "When did he say that?"

"I had pricked my hand with a needle," she answers with a nostalgic half-grin, "and it got infected because I was too stupid to go and visit him. I think it still applies."

Jon nods. "I suppose you're right."

Gently, she turns to him and nudges his arm with her elbow. "Your turn."

Eyes downcast, he shakes his head. "I don't remember mine."

Masking her encouragement with playful accusation, she peers at him suspiciously. "Liar."

He concedes with a forced chuckle, busying himself with running his hand between Ghost's pale, soft ears. "It wasn't too bad this time, not to the point where I woke up not knowing where I was. It was just a memory, he was flaying me-"

Knowingly, she interjects. "Jon."

Breathing a resolving breath, he concedes. "I was back there, and he was carving words into my back."

"Words?"

"Aye," he confirms. Sensing his shame, Ghost then lifts his head to dart his tongue comfortingly between his master's fingers. A soft smile dances on Jon's lips at the gesture. "I won't be able to hide once it heals, so you ought to know now."

She gazes at him in what might be mistaken for disbelief, but he knows she's far smarter than that. "What did he write?"

"You know what he wrote."

Drawing in a bitter sigh which wisps quietly between her lips, she nods. "What then?"

"Nothing, just-" he considers his answer and having seemingly found it, he runs an anxious hand through his hair, raven curls twisting around his fingers. "It was the first time I felt like he really got into my head."

"I remember that moment," she admits sympathetically. "There was this old woman, she was still loyal to our house and she promised to help me escape. He... found out..." She seems to trail off as if omitting a piece of information, but he doesn't press her for it. "He took me to her body, he'd flayed her."

"Your last hope of getting out of here," he shakes his head suddenly, realizing his mistake. "Out of there."

"Here _is_ there," she corrects. "Do you think this will ever really be home again?"

Honesty is all he can offer her, for surely she would see through anything else. "I don't know."

A breath puffs through her nose in a dark chuckle devoid of humor. "I don't know why I thought it would all be over once he was gone," she admits with hollowed eyes. "It was a stupid thing to think."

Jon shakes his head. "When a spider bites you, the bite doesn't disappear just because you kill it."

Their gazes meet for a brief moment before her lips curl upwards in a mischievous grin.

"We're just riddled with analogies tonight, aren't we?"

A low bark of laughter and he facetiously feigns solemnity as best he can. "Yes, we're very wise."

The sounds which spill simultaneously from their lips are some of the most beautiful melodies either of them have heard in a long while. When it dies out, something else suddenly manifests itself, something that sets an uneasy tension at the perch of his spine. Curiously, he turns to her and is taken aback by the image of tiny crystal droplets pooling in her eyes. "What's wrong?"

Battling a subtle tightness in her voice, she keeps her eyes downcast to conceal her distress. "Aren't you angry?"

"I suppose so," he answers unsurely, "but he's dead now-"

"No," she objects, "angry with me."

Baffled, he frowns. "What?"

"It's my fault that this happened to you," she confesses, her voice trembling as the threshold of shame and guilt finally crumbles. "I sent you in there, Jon. It was me."

"Sansa-"

"Don't say that it isn't," she counters stubbornly, "if it weren't for me, none of this would have happened to you."

"If it weren't for you, Ramsay would still be alive and we wouldn't be home again."

Tearfully, she shakes her head. "Jon-"

"Sansa." Her name falls from his lips with an authority so great that she cannot bring herself to dispute the issue any further. In fact, she's taken aback because for a fleeting moment it isn't Jon speaking, but father and this revelation instantly saturates her with both grief and immeasurable pride. Firmly, he takes her hand in his and punctuates his words with a reassuring squeeze. "You cannot think this way."

Furiously blinking back tears, she nods, and it's the last they speak of it. It's the last they speak of anything, for they soon drift off with her head on his shoulder and his hand over hers. For the first time in a long while, they both sleep a dreamless sleep.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Just a quick angsty/fluffy filler. As I am still searching for a beta, if you notice any errors please let me know. I hope you enjoyed!


	6. Dolus

The days pass by slowly, and slower still when the maester reveals that Jon is not healing quite as he should be. In fact, the wounds have hardly mended at all, merely stagnated. At first they attribute it to the mutilations marring both his front and his back for it is logical that lack of slumber would inhibit his body from repairing itself. So, they increase his dosage of Milk of the Poppy and while he now sleeps more oft than not, still she frequently finds fresh dots of blood peppering his sheets. At this, the maester sputters some other pseudo explanation with good intentions, but it falls on deaf ears. As she watches her brother slip quietly into yet another opiate-induced slumber, she cannot shake the foreboding flutter in her gut, for she's felt it many times before and her instincts have only sharpened over time. By the Seven, she hopes they're wrong this time.

The Gods have never looked kindly upon the Stark name, and it seems Jon's illegitimacy has done little to shield him from their wrath.

Stirred from slumber by a cold wetness prodding at her fingertips, Sansa gathers her bearings with a groan and rubs the sleep begrudgingly from her eyes. Illuminated by the fire, the direwolf's coat shimmers like the rays of dawn on a fresh blanket of snow. She swipes her hand away as a long, flat tongue darts between her fingers.

"Go away, Ghost," she mutters. In a flash of white, he bolts suddenly to her door, stopping to turn to her impatiently with an expectant gaze of red rubies. A moment of mounting concern, and she rises to wrap herself hastily in her robe, knowing far better than to question the beast. Together they fill the desolate halls with the soft patter of paws and bare feet and while the wolf pauses periodically to remain in her line of sight, the courtesy is fruitless. She knows precisely where he leads her.

They enter the room and as Ghost darts around to his master's feet, the first abnormality that strikes her is the simple sight of Jon's bandaged shoulders as he sits hunched off the edge of the bed. While such a display of strength could be indicative of an improving condition, the lack of acknowledgment and the anxiously wriggling wolf suggest something far less promising.

"Jon?" As she kneels down before him, glassy brown eyes bear an unseeing gaze and she grimly notes the sheen of sweat at his temple. Stifling her concern, she scolds him softly. "You shouldn't move around so much, what are you doing?"

Finally, his eyes dance hazily over her features though she wonders if he truly registers her presence. With little warning beyond the subtle parting of his lips, he lurches forth and she nearly stumbles to avoid the bile which splashes to the floor. Acting quickly, she fumbles through the darkness for the chamber pot which she shoves hastily into his hands, silently thanking the vigilant servant who'd ensured its cleanliness.

The familiar and oppressing sense of powerlessness is quick to cinch her heart like a vice as she watches the convulsions grip him for what feels like an eternity, vicious and unyielding. Finally, he seems to be allowed a respite, leaving him curled in on himself and sputtering for air.

In a fleeting moment of clarity, he draws a shuddering breath and swipes the sick from his mouth. "Sorry," he mutters autonomously, but Sansa ignores him. She is far too focused on the thick smear of red that appears on his wrist like the first stroke of paint on a virgin canvas.

Kneeling down before him, she gathers his face in her hands and swallows her horror at the gruesome mess of blood around his lips. "I need to find help," she says with as much composure as she can muster, "do you understand?" Though his slow and hazy nod is unconvincing, she flits away in a flurry of skirts and urgency and orange hair.

The sound of her breath and the patter of her feet are all that can be heard within the vast expanse of the keep, derisive reminders of her solitude. The hall is torturously endless, nearly surreal. Suddenly cursing her own foolishness, she parts her lips in a vociferous cry for help that resounds triumphantly over the oppressive silence. At the sound, she is met with a face full of fur which emerges from around the corner and has her reeling backward with a startled yelp.

A pair of strong arms dart out to steady her. "My lady?" The man, Sansa recognizes him from the castle guard, peers into the darkness behind her as if searching for potential pursuers. "Are you-?"

"Get the maester," she interjects. "Bring him to Jon's room immediately."

The man nods dutifully, but she doesn't remain long enough to see it.

The sickening miasma of the room sends a rush of dizziness to her head as she returns, but she presses through it resolutely. Jon is caught in another fit of vomiting, blossoms of deep red blooming in sharp contrast to the white of his bandages as his wounds split beneath their binds. A protective hand is wrapped tightly around his gut as the other holds the chamberpot to catch the fallout. Between convulsions, a ragged plea in the form of her name spills from his lips. "Sansa..."

Azure eyes flit hopefully to the door as he doubles over yet again. "They're coming, Jon. Breathe for me." He complies, seeming no older than a child as he wills labored breaths heavily through his nose. Ghost ceases his nervous pacing for a moment to nuzzle his master's thigh in encouragement. Though her heart races, she sits with composure beside him as tremors whip through his body, offering soft comforts and rubbing soothing circles at the small of his back. "That's it, that's it."

When Maester Colemon arrives, the room becomes a hub of chaos. He is quick to poke and prod and pour foul liquids down Jon's throat, which are in turn quick to return to the world mixed with bile and blood. Knowing her presence will only hinder the man's work, she positions herself against the wall and observes the unfolding horror silently. The sight is surreal, like something out of a nightmare as she watches her brother's body tremble and convulse in a bed stained with blood. From across the room he looks to her with glassy, agonized eyes, his skin slick with red as he searches her for answers that she cannot provide him. All she can do is offer him her silent support and allow him to draw strength from her own abating reservoir.

As servants scurry about bearing trays of poultices, some stop to gently encourage her to return to her own chambers for rest. Not once does she dignify the suggestion with a response as images of cold grey walls adorned by Bolton sigils flash through her mind. Being surrounded by strangers in her time of need is no new concept to her, and she refuses to allow Jon to endure anything similar.

Eventually, mercifully, his eyes roll back into his head and he sags limply into the bed, a sight which both relieves and terrifies her. A time passes as the man continues his work on Jon's body, though she cannot specify exactly how long. Finally, he approaches her with sagging shoulders and an air of defeat, chains jingling softly around his neck. "My lady, I've done all that I can do."

She swallows, her throat tight as she maintains a stoic outward composure, eyes trained unwaveringly on Jon's motionless form. "We were talking just hours ago, he was fine."

The man nods knowingly. "Similar afflictions are known to strike unexpectedly."

"But you can heal him." _Of course he can't._

Thin, wrinkled lips become even thinner. "My lady, the damage is done. I came with the means to treat wounds of battle, not poison." Sansa's gut drops to her feet at the word but the elderly man continues, oblivious. "I've sent two of the best riders under our Lady's command to retrieve the necessary supplies but if it's honesty you seek, I would not fill you with false hope."

Suddenly, Ramsay's bloody grin in the courtyard flashes in her mind and the realization nearly knocks the breath from her lungs. _He did this. He knew. You were stupid to think you'd won. He's outsmarted you from beyond the grave, you stupid, stupid girl._

Regardless of her willpower, tears pool and a primal rage floods through her veins. Autonomously, she addresses the pair of servant girls standing quietly beside the maester. "Clean him and fetch him new sheets. The rest of you, leave us."

She doesn't see the maester bow, or hear the other servants bid their polite farewells because she doesn't care. Why should she? If the man's words are true, than time is precious and she'll not waste it on pointless formalities.

Absently, she observes as they gently scrub the blood from his skin and lay him back on a bed of sheets nearly as white as he. Soon, she's left alone with only her thoughts, a brother paler than death itself and a direwolf who has positioned himself protectively across his master's lap. The image seems strangely fitting, morbidly routine. For the remainder of the night, she studies the shallow rise and fall of his chest as if it will cease moving the moment she turns away.

If she were to listen close enough, she expects she'd hear the gods laughing at the sight.

* * *

When at last his eyelids flutter open, the first thing that strikes him is how distant the memory of daylight seems. The familiar gray hue of which the light has painted has proven a source of comfort rather than the bleak Northern nuisance which many perceive it as. As per usual, he's greeted by a familiar red braid to his left, and a mound of soft white fur to his right. When at last cognitive function writes itself back into his repertoire of ability, he clears his throat. The hoop and needle in her hands nearly tumbles to the floor at the sudden sound and he recoils with a sheepish pang of regret for having not made some prior indicator of his consciousness.

"Sorry." The one meager word ignites a burn in his throat as though he's breathed fire, and suddenly the memory of the night prior comes rushing back. He swallows thickly.

"It's alright," she reassures him, "how do you feel?"

As if to volunteer a wordless response, a warm wetness slithers from his nose and his wrist comes away red as he swipes it across his lip. With a grim sigh, Sansa reaches forward with her handkerchief only to have her hand stubbornly batted away.

"You've made it worse," she argues. Reluctantly, he swallows his pride and consents, though Sansa doesn't seem to deem the action nearly as degrading as he does, which is a small comfort.

Respectfully, he moves to position himself upright and his breath catches in his throat as a sudden surge of agony swells in his gut, as though he's been pierced by a white hot dagger. The sheer intensity of the sensation is enough to bring splashes of color to his vision. Seeing this, Sansa springs forth to offer her support as he rides out the wave with an arm wrapped tightly across his belly.

"Breathe," she instructs with a cool hand at his arm, "are you going to be sick?" Swallowing the inexplicable and mercifully diminishing pain, he shakes his head. "The maester will be returning soon, I'll have him bring something."

Recovering, he breathes a composing breath. "Does he know what's wrong?" Sansa does not volunteer an immediate response, her jaw instead tightening and the words become unnecessary, for Jon easily understands the implication. With a sorrowful smile, he nods. "Infection?"

She hesitates. "Poison."

The word hangs heavily in the air between them, Unsure of just how he's expected to react, he swallows and breathes a chuckle through a soft, grim smile. "I thought we'd beaten him."

Such an admission strikes the rawest sorrow into her chest, but she buries it and raises her chin with resilience. "We did."

"You did," he corrects her swiftly. "That's really all that matters to me."

"Stop talking as if you're dying." Her hands ball into tight fists in her lap, nearly childlike. As if her willpower alone is enough to keep his heart beating. "You aren't."

"I know what dying feels like," he reminds her with a humorless smile. With a resolving breath, he presses through the initial weight of the situation. "It's alright. Tormund and Davos will be a good council to you, you'll have nothing to worry about-"

"Nothing to worry about? How in seven hells can you say I have nothing to worry about?"

"I only meant that..." he stammers, "when I'm gone-"

"So that's it?" Tears prickle in her eyes though her expression remains hard as stone. "You're done fighting, then? After all that's happened, you're finished."

"I never said I was done fighting," he counters sternly, "but I'm not going to ignore the alternative, either."

Leaning forward, she punctuates her words deliberately. "There is no alternative."

"Well, what do you want from me, Sansa?" Pain spreads like fire through his ribs at the exertion, but still his voice rises. "It isn't like I want to die-"

"Don't you?" The accusation is made before her better judgement has a chance to stop it. She swallows with carefully concealed regret, yearning to simply breathe the words back in, erase them from existence. But she cannot, and the muscles of his jaw pulse as a flurry of anger and hurt and shame. "Jon, I-"

"Why do you care, anyway?" He interjects venomously.

Such hostility is unbecoming of him, so much so that she's left with a slack jaw and a loss for words. "I... You're my brother-"

"I'm less of a brother to you than Rickon was."

The words are like a dagger in her heart and following the initial hurt, a sudden coldness settles upon her. Jon reckons she'd have fit in quite well at Castle Black, though admittedly such a place would be grossly unfitting of her in every other sense.

"Don't you dare," she seethes, her voice low and deadly. "You saw Ramsay firsthand for the monster that he was. You were tortured by him, poisoned by him and don't think for one second that I don't know _exactly_ what he let his men do to you." All at once, the color drains from Jon's face. "If you think that Rickon still had a chance in the end than you're far more naive than I thought, but don't you dare tell me that I didn't care."

A long, palpable tension settles between them before Jon breaks the silence with averted eyes. "I think you should leave."

-and she does, though a pinch in her chest begs her not to, begs her to swallow her pride even if he will now swallow his own. She leaves. Without another word.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Unbeta-ed until I can find someone up to the task, so if you've noticed any errors let me know! I hope that you enjoyed!


	7. Echo

Kings Landing had taught Sansa many things, among them was the importance of appearances. An unwavering display of surety and confidence would be pivotal in their effort to maintain a hold on the North but much to her grim expectation, Jon's inexplicable absence has not gone unnoticed. Bold declarations of his victory over Ramsay had swiftly turned to doubt in the form of hushed murmurs. It would be only a matter of time before the support of their vassals would crumble, for the men to disperse back to their lands like sand through splayed fingers. 

Men and women seek her out often, inquiring of Jon with the closest thing to authenticity that she's seen in a long time, however born of self-interest it may be. Her response is rehearsed, autonomous with a forceful smile and hollow reassurance. They need not know how his clarity falters more and more each day, or how the simplest of acts have the ability to utterly exhaust him.

More concerning are the relentless fits of agony which grow in length and intensity as the days pass and with it also grows Jon's dependency on the cursed poppy. 

Father had maintained a particular distaste for the opioid, as many northmen do, and had discouraged its uses under all but the worst circumstances. It makes a man slow, he'd say, dulls the senses. This unfortunately became exactly what made it so desirable to many, how it lured and eventually consumed. While Sansa is confident that their present predicament qualifies as proper use, she's not sure Jon would agree when in his right mind, stubborn as he is.

She will address it when the time comes, for Jon's survival is her only present concern.

Their conversations become strained with unresolved tension, fallout from their mutual hostility just a few nights prior. What little interaction they have is interrupted often by sudden fits of agony which have him clutching his belly and often emptying bloodied bile into the chamber pot. When the assaults cease, he'll drop back against the headboard, pale and sweaty with an air of defeated exhaustion. Sansa's only course of action is to speak soothing comforts and promises that it will all be over soon.

It will, she muses cynically. One way or another. 

The sun has just reached its apex behind the thick veil of grey clouds. Winter must truly be here, for the air has finally acquired its seasonally characteristic bite, sweet and frigid even beside the warmth of the hearth. Thus far, the day has been not unlike those that came before and for that she is relatively grateful. 

Just moments after an episode that's left him breathless, the door opens to reveal a frazzled orange beard superior to a garb of layered furs. Sansa greets him with a halfhearted tightening of her lips which he acknowledges with a curt nod before his gaze shifts to Jon beside her. 

It is an odd bond they've built, something as unique as Jon's ever seen and something he'd not trade for the world. Tormund and he were predestined to be enemies, it had been written into their DNA like the hue of their eyes. However, whatever instinct that would have them ripping at each other's throats like wild dogs had been effectively extinguished over time and replaced by something far more meaningful, something far stronger. 

Still, neither of them could resist the opportunity to nip at the other's heels. So Tormund raises a brow, and while poured into the simple motion is a world of concern, it is masqueraded expertly with a hefty sigh.

"You look like dog shit."

A weary half-grin tugs at Jon's lips. With as much steadiness as he can muster, he draws his wrist across his mouth, swiping away the blood as he returns the chamberpot to the bedside table. "Thank you."

The man helps himself to the chair opposite Sansa, greeting a wiggling Ghost beside him with a pat. "You plan on getting your ass out of that bed soon?" Jon parts his lips to speak but catches Sansa's raised brow in his periphery, scrutinizing his response. Knowing better, he offers only a halfhearted shrug and Tormund snorts. "You're a wise man, I wouldn't challenge her either."

Jon grunts in affirmation, the sheets pooling in his lap to reveal a heavily bandaged torso as he lifts himself into a sitting position. "How's morale?"

"They ask about you," informs Tormund, "they want to know how you're doing, where you've been."

The wounded man shifts uncomfortably. In his youth, he'd been often disregarded as a result of his illegitimacy, Lady Catelyn had firmly seen to that. As time passed and his cries for attention became more and more desperate, those cries were silenced swiftly in the form of punishment, but a much younger Jon quickly realized that even negative attention was better than none at all. While such a mentality has since been buried, still some small drop must stew below the surface because he finds himself squirming uncomfortably, expecting a painful and inevitable retaliation.

"I... appreciate it."

"Don't," the wildling grunts. "Concern turns to worry and worry turns to fear. Fear makes men want to go back home."

Understanding, he nods. "Who of them knows?"

"No one that I know of."

"Lady Lyanna approached me," interjects Sansa, "but she won't say anything to the others."

A sudden flash of discontent in his eyes, drawing his brows together and rippling in his jaw. Whether such a thing is born from a need to remain resilient and whole in his supporters' eyes or merely planting potential disquiet in the heart of a young girl, she cannot be certain.

Perhaps his resentment has grown and he merely cannot stand the sound of her voice anymore.

"Why worry her like that?" He inquires, and she breathes a silent breath of relief.

"If it weren't for her and her maester, you'd be dead. I didn't feel right withholding information, but don't worry, we can trust her."

Jon nods in acceptance, but still a thin veil of guilt remains. Sansa grins. "The girl is forged from steel, I wouldn't concern yourself with worrying her."

A wistful grin tugs at the corner of his lips, his gaze drifting to something far away that she cannot see. "Doesn't she remind you of Arya?"

A mess of tangled brown hair and dirtied cheeks flashes through her mind's eye. Arya had never resigned herself to the life of a Lady, but indeed Sansa imagines she and Lady Mormont would have had similar approaches to leadership. "She does."

Tormund's eyes dart between the two, brow raised inquisitively. "This the wild one with the little sword?" 

A soft breath of laughter through Jon's nose. "Aye, that's the one."

The conversation is cut suddenly short by a familiar click. In the doorway, the Onion Knight stands with a somber air and a roll of parchment pressed to his palm by his thumb.

Sansa eyes the paper warily, "what news?"

"A raven," he answers as he passes the note to Jon, "from Kings Landing."

The paper crinkles unnervingly as it is unrolled, flakes of burgundy wax fluttering to his lap as he runs his eyes over the page. Sansa grinds her teeth anxiously as she observes the frustration that creases his brow. "What is it?"

"Cersei," he states simply, crumpling the parchment into a small ball between his fingers. "Queen Cersei."

Sansa's jaw tightens, her expression growing instinctively cold at the mere mention of the queen's name. "And?"

"I'm not sure you need to ask," Jon says as his eyes flit to the page once more, "come to King's Landing, bend the knee or suffer the fate of all traitors."

"She's taken the throne, than."

"Aye," he concurs with an enervated huff, "looks that way."

Sansa raises a brow. "You don't seem particularly concerned."

"We have bigger things to tend to," he states. "They are southerners, and Winter is here. They won't venture this far north, not now."

"You think Cersei cares about that? You don't know her," she argues, "you don't know how far she will go to destroy her enemies."

"Alright," he concedes. "What-"

A sharp twist just behind his navel cuts the inquiry suddenly short. Preparing himself, he wills the air smoothly through his nose with waning control as the pit of fire begins to deepen, cutting through him like the sharpest steel and bringing stars to his vision.

Wordlessly, Sansa seats herself beside him, placing a cool hand between already slick shoulder blades as he squeezes his eyes shut, curling in on himself in a fruitless attempt to alleviate the pain. "Breathe," she instructs calmly, being no stranger in observing such episodes. "Are you going to be sick?" A tight shake of his head and she resigns herself to a role of silent support. Nearby, Tormund and Davos restlessly observe the assault, having not entirey accepted the reality of their helplessness as she has. 

Beneath her fingertips, she can feel his agony reach its peak as a soft whimper slips through his lips and he chokes out a strained "fuck."

From there, his muscles slowly and surely loosen as the wave subsides. Jon clears his throat, swallowing his pride as he's left trembling and covered in a cold sweat. Finally registering her hand at his shoulders, he shies away from her touch and it's all she can do to stifle the hurt that his rejection brings.

A weary sigh. "As I was saying," he grumbles, "what do you suggest?"

Drawing her lip between her teeth, she rises and returns to her prior seat. "We need to get you well again, to start."

A grim huff of a chuckle, and he raises bloodshot eyes to her. "Think she'd feel as threatened if I came down to Kings Landing like this?"

Sansa frowns. "Will you please take this seriously?" An apologetic nod is offered in response.

"This queen," Tormund pipes, "could she be intimidated?"

"We don't have the men to back up a threat," the Onion Knight negates, "gods know she already has spies lurking about."

"We need to cast a large shadow," she says. "Winter is almost enough of a threat by itself, all we need is an extra push."

"Aye," Tormund nods, considering this and turning to the bedridden commander. "One man who believes in what he's fighting for will fight far more fiercely than one who doesn't."

Davos grunts with skepticism, "but the men are timid. They haven't seen their commander in weeks." 

The wildling turns, regarding the otherwise silent man in the bed beside him. "You won the support of my people when you brought us south of the wall," he says "it seems the others still need more convincing."

"Appearently winning back the North wasn't enough," remarks Sansa sardonically.

Tormund grunts, "bunch of needy fuckers."

Jon sighs, running a hand through his hair and testing his legs with a wriggle beneath the covers. Then, as if having just come to a silent conclusion within his mind, he nods.

"Call them all to the Great Hall at sundown."

Sansa raises a brow, "you can't possibly think they can see you like this."

Grunting, he lifts himself further upright and brings his legs over the side of the bed. "It will have to do." As the pads of his feet touch the floor, he pauses, silently willing the insufferable trembling of his limbs to cease.

"Taking the chance with remaining unseen would be better," argues Sansa, seeing this. "You can hardly hold your own head up, you think they'll have any more confidence in you if you're spewing all over them?"

Jon grits his teeth, blinking away the swirling of his vision. "I'll swallow it."

In a swirl of skirts, she rounds the bedside and kneels down before him, "you don't understand how important this is," she warns. "They can't know anything. One cough will only reinforce the rumors they've been hearing."

Rich brown eyes boldly meet exquisite blue. "They aren't rumors."

With an imperceptible huff of frustration she starts again, more carefully now. "I spent a long time in Kings Landing, I learned how to bury everything down because that's what you need to do to survive. They will rip everything you know away from you if it's what will serve their interests, men of the north and south alike." Encouraged by his silence and the unwavering focus of his eyes, she continues. "I learned how important it was to make them believe like you have everything together, like your shit smells like roses and come dragons or white walkers, nothing will stop you."

Jon considers this for a brief moment, weighing her words. "You know how to do this?"

She nods.

"Teach me."

* * *

It's a wonderful thing, she muses, to see him walking on his own two feet. Jon carries himself quite well, while he leans heavily on his cane to alleviate the stress on his leg, it's a reassuring sight all the same. The damage done has been easily hidden by layers of leather and fur as the direwolf sigil sits proudly upon his chest, a bold contradiction to what is etched in the flesh beneath it. Had he not been paler than death itself, she'd have thought nothing to be amiss. All she can do is dearly hope that the fits will remain at bay and he can maintain his composure for the duration of the meeting.

With a soft smile, she regards him as she seats herself at his side and her eyes widen in horror. A trail of blood has snaked from his nose, thinly veiled as it mingles with the dark hairs of his lip. Stilling her heart, she coughs once and rubs her own lip demonstratively. Understanding the implication, he covertly swipes his wrist across his skin and the blood disappears among the fur of his sleeve. Thank the gods the men are likely still too preoccupied with settling themselves to have noticed.

Clearing his throat, Jon speaks with an authoritative voice which carries over the rabble at a volume far beyond what Sansa would have expected from him in his state. "Alright." The men fall abruptly silent and a proud grin tugs at the corner of her lip. "I trust Winterfell has been treating you well, for we would not be here if it weren't for your support and I'm eternally grateful for it." A brief pause as the men voice their agreement, and Jon continues. "I'm afraid however, that the fight has only just begun. Now, we must turn our eyes north to face a much greater enemy, one far more powerful than Ramsay Bolton, and with a far greater army."

"Aye." Yohn Royce stands both abruptly and slowly. "But with respect, my Lord, we've heard no mention of this devastating threat, this army of the dead that you so passionately spoke of when seeking our arms to reclaim Winterfell. In fact, we've seen nor heard from you in over a fortnight."

The room stirs and though such a response is not inherently adverse, still it stirs uncomfortably in Jon's gut. "I understand your concern, Lord Royce, but I assure you that the threat of the White Walkers is even more real than now when I initially sought your support. We must rally together to defeat them."

"Who can speak for you to confirm such a thing?" Glover quips. "Lord Royce speaks with truth, we've seen no proof of this coming storm you speak of, and now that Winterfell is in your hands, you've made no further mention of it."

Jon clenches his jaw briefly and breathes a soft breath of composure through his nose. Such resistance is not unexpected, in fact it's something he's grown accustomed to. Still, his experience makes it no less unnerving. "My lord, I've been face to face with the storm. I've looked into the Night King's eyes as he looked into mine and I assure you, that is where my motivation lies."

"If you are so motivated," Lord Manderly challenges boldly, "than why have we been sitting here idly, doing nothing to prepare?"

Swallowing his frustration, he speaks. "I'm afraid I've not been in a position to assume effective command as of late, but I've appreciated your patience during this time as I've been recovering from my injuries during the battle-"

"-and your captivity," Lord Royce adds, "you were Ramsay Bolton's prisoner, were you not?"

Jon stills, speaking carefully. "Aye, I was."

The man nods, turning to address his comrades. "We all know what happened to Balon Greyjoy's boy when that bastard sunk his claws in his mind," Jon's fingers twitch beneath the table, "how can we be sure your allegiances have not also shifted?"

The men bicker among themselves and Sansa swallows imperceptibly. The meet is dragging on far too long, long enough to where another episode grows more imminent with each passing moment and as if on cue, his breath hitches beside her. In her periphery, she watches him stiffen, elbow twitching in what is an obvious effort to deter his arm from wrapping protectively around his center. With a heavy heart, she fights to keep her gaze locked before her, even through the subtle creak of leather as his gloved fingers grip the edge of the table as subtly as he can.

By the time it's his turn to speak, the fit has not yet reached it's peak but mercifully, Lyanna Mormont stands, her eyes barely meeting the height of the others who still remain seated. 

"This man owes you no explanation, Lord Glover, Lord Manderly. I'd have you both consider your words, for the North I know would not take kindly to such treatment toward one of Ned Stark's own, bastard or not." Turning, she addresses the others who have fallen abruptly silent. Meanwhile Jon struggles to maintain a cognitive hold of her words, agony rippling through every nerve in his body. "We should be ashamed of ourselves, for while we sat back and twiddled our thumbs, three Starks were taken captive and one of them is dead because of it."

A somber air falls upon the hall, one that Sansa cannot quite bring herself to believe. With no man daring to interrupt, Lady Mormont continues. 

"We all know the Bolton house words, and Ramsey was the worst of them." Meeting Jon's watering eyes with a momentary veil of compassion, he wonders if she can see through his crumbling facade. "I do not wish to imagine what horrors they were forced to endure, but what I do know is that Jon Snow led us bravely to victory when there was hardly a battle to be fought, and any man with the strength to face the likes of Ramsay Bolton and emerge whole is a man well worth the allegiance of my house. I don't care if he's a bastard, Ned Stark's blood runs through his veins."

A rumble of agreement, growing more emphatic by the second. Jon doesn't catch the remainder of her words as the pain reaches its peak, and for a fleeting moment his vision goes black. When reality falls finally back into his grasp, they're chanting his name.

Except it's not his name, not really. It's the title they've elected for him but suddenly, he finds himself sitting in the common hall at Castle Black. Vociferous, rhythmic cries of "Jon Snow!" send ripples through his ale as Maester Aemon casts the final Choosing token, electing him the 998th Lord Commander of the Night's Watch.

"The King in the North!"

Traitor, crudely etched.

"The King in the North!" 

Steel in his gut.

"The King in the North!"

His heart quickens.


End file.
